My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

Her fingers trembling, Catrin stuck her hands into the folds of the gown she’d borrowed from Olwen. She was anxious to depart for home to deliver Gilbert’s body to Clun Castle.

As she gazed over the garden, her thoughts spiraled in a thousand directions. The muscles in her shoulders grew tense and her throat dry. Would Olwen be able to manage the savage black knight? Even briefly for their first meeting? Her cousin’s only hope was to escape to a nunnery. That was clear after hearing her foolish plan to tell the truth.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path. It was a heavy sound, not light like Olwen’s. Catrin’s lower lip quivered.

“My lady, Hamon told me where to find you,” a deep voice said. “I am surprised, but gratified to find you alone.”

Slowly, Catrin turned to face the man she suspected of murder. He was taller than she remembered. Well-built, he stood before her like a frozen specter with his black, wool surcoat falling in folds from his broad shoulders. Not as fierce-looking as when he had stood before her encased from head to foot in mail and helm, the Welshman still presented a frightening sight. With shoulder-length, unfashionably long, ebony hair, his dark brows framed eyes as black as his raven namesake.

She felt heat in her cheeks. What was wrong with her? This was the man who’d clutched her breasts with an iron grip. His very presence both terrified and excited her. A feeling of vulnerability oozed through her veins like honey. If he had this effect on her, what would he do to Olwen? She lifted a hand to her lips.

He took one step forward, then stopped. “Have I frightened you?”

“Nay!”

He searched her face with a questioning gaze. A thin, self-deprecating smile curved his lips, lightening his countenance and making him almost handsome. Deep in his gray eyes, a light burned. “I’m not as dreadful as my reputation, my lady.”

Confusion stilled her tongue.

“You mustn’t be afraid of me, Lady Northbridge,” he said gently extending his hand toward her.

She averted her gaze. Did he think her Olwen? Quick! Just this once she could protect one of her own. She could pretend to be Olwen and save her cousin from the torture of this meeting.

Yet would he know her identity?

When he saw her on the path, she wore a green gown and like now, she’d been covered from head to toe, except for her face. Now she wore Olwen’s second-best gown, so surely he wouldn’t recognize her from her clothing. And last night in the dark, she’d been careful not to show her face.

“Olwen is a lovely name. May I call you that?” He took another step. “Please use my given name, since we are to marry. You may call me Bran.”

Deliberately she lifted her head and stared at his unwavering gray gaze with its strange spark of light. She pressed her lips together.

How could her sweet cousin deal with such a devil—a man with a steady gaze that burned into a woman’s soul? Her instinctive need to protect her family thudded hard against her chest.

He cocked his head. “You look familiar to me.”

Catrin quickly lowered her eyes like the shy maiden she pretended to be and found her tongue. “Perchance I look familiar because you have seen my cousin Catrin, Lady Fitzalan. We are oft called sisters because of our resemblance.”

“You and Lady Fitzalan are cousins?”

“Aye, my mother was twin sister to Catrin’s father, Earl Rothmore. That is why we have a similar appearance,” she whispered, finding this part of the story easy to tell for ’twas the truth.

He nodded, watching her intently. “You already know the king’s decision?”

“Aye, news—both good and bad—travels fast.” Unblinking, her breathing shallow, she lifted her eyes and regarded him.

“You consent?”

She raised her chin. “I am the king’s ward. I must do as I am told, as is custom.”

“Custom also says you have the right of refusal.”

“Duty bids me to wed. What matter to whom?”

“I am glad you will do your duty, my lady,” he said. “Yet I hope our marriage will be something more than an obligation. If not love, perchance a pleasant tolerance will grow between us.”

Catrin had not anticipated the genuine fervor in his eyes or the appealing tilt of his head. Nor had she expected to be touched by his words. She fought back with her finest haughty manner, reserved for recalcitrant servants or dealings with Isadora.

“Love? You have lofty expectations, my lord.”

Humor lit his eyes. “Aye, and oftentimes my expectations have been met.”

“You presume much.”

He lifted a black eyebrow. “Presumptions oft have a way of becoming reality.”

His air of easy confidence shattered her annoyance. She felt herself succumbing as she had last night, when his hands had roused a tingling in her breasts and farther down in the place she kept private.

Straightening her spine, Catrin battled her wayward body. Granted, the king may not believe this knight a murderer, but others accused him. Further, she had proof—the torn piece of scarf—and she needed only to hold onto that knowledge.

“Then you do not know me well, sir,” she said, using her cold anger to combat the odd weakness in her knees. “I am not easily swayed.”

“And you know me not at all, my lady, for I delight in picking up a gauntlet once thrown down. I believe we will do well together.”

His gaze stopped the breath in her throat.

Whoremonger. Bastard. Murderer.

How dare he unclothe her with his look?

How dare he ?

He had every right as Olwen’s betrothed.

An inner voice quieted Catrin’s thudding heart. This wasn’t real, only a game of the moment—a ruse to prevent the black knight from harming Olwen before her cousin might flee to the convent. She bit her tongue, her fingers curling into her palms.

His dark eyes sparkled. “What, no more challenges, my lady?”

Had she made matters worse by not acting enough like Olwen?

“Our king spoke of your beauty.” He stepped nearer. “I find His Grace speaks truth.”

The fearsome knight towered above her. Catrin’s pulse quickened. The scent of wood smoke and horses drifted to her. ’Twas a manly smell that clung to his clothes, the scent of one who spent time outdoors. There was a faint vanilla-like whiff of woodruff as well.

“Blue eyes the color of the Welsh sky.” He reached out to stroke her forehead just beneath her barbette. Tracing the outline of her face framed by her concealing headdress, he whispered, “Faith, what color is your hair?”

His touch held her hostage. No man had ever taken such liberty. Yet as her betrothed he had the right. Nay! He was Olwen’s man. She’d do well to remember.

She failed to speak. He lifted a fingertip and touched her lips. A drugging lethargy spread through Catrin’s limbs at the very nearness of him. The knight’s contact strangely soothed her, mesmerizing her by his soft caress.

“Your hair, my lady?”

“Flaxen,” Catrin forced herself to say.

What was the matter with her? With him? He wasn’t behaving like the hideous black knight but as a lover. His smile cleared his countenance and chased away the dark aspect of his being. What of his heart? Was it still black and deceptive? She knew not. She only knew his closeness clouded her reason and her thoughts. Her eyebrows drew together.

“Do not frown, cariad ,” he said.

The intimate endearment rattled Catrin to her very core. An unfamiliar fire ignited deep within, destroying what was left of her common sense.

Cariad . Sweetheart. With difficulty, trance-like, she raised her chin, but she could not pull away from his warm fingertips.

“A kiss to seal our bargain before I come for you at Northbridge?”

She dared not protest. She must play the part of Olwen. Her cousin would not think to object to a simple betrothal kiss.

He favored her with a look of compassion as if he understood the affect he had on her. “I will be ever gentle, cariad , and never harm you.”

Before Catrin could question his promise, the knight’s lips were upon hers. Tentative at first. Questing, as if her mouth were the Holy Grail.

He cupped her face tenderly with his hands, and with a gentle roughness his mouth began to request, and then demand more from her. His tongue sought entrance and once inside, took the soft flesh of her mouth with wicked thrusts. Instead of being repulsed, Catrin responded. His growing excitement stimulated and empowered hers.

The fire in her belly spread, igniting her until her whole body was an unholy blaze of desire. He pressed the length of his hard bulk against her, the bulging presence in the folds of his surcoat obvious. She should have been horrified, appalled by his audacity. Instead, Catrin burned with a need she had never before felt.

As his mouth devoured her own, taking her breath away, a niggling inner voice sounded warning. Why did her body betray her? This knight was her sworn enemy.

Fear—as hot as her lust—ripped into her gut.

Catrin’s neglected hands became her only defense. She placed her palms against his chest and shoved against him with all her might, her breath choking in her throat.

“No!” She twisted from him and backed away.

“My lady?”

Panting, Catrin glared at him. His desire-filled eyes narrowed in bewilderment.

“I meant only a chaste, betrothal kiss.” He lowered his head. “Forgive me.”

Frightened because of her mysterious response to his mouth and body, Catrin’s hands knotted.

“You bastard!” The words left her mouth quickly.

Puzzlement flickered in his dark eyes, turning immediately into black, stormy anger. He seized her shoulders with a grip of iron, pulling her to him. His breath was hot on her face.

“Bastard I may be, but you, my wife, shall never call me that.”

Mustering all her courage, Catrin tipped her head back and glared at him. “Then do not play the part.”

His hard gaze traveled over her face, branding her. “Our lady queen called you a demure maiden and counseled caution so that I not frighten you. She was wrong. You are no timid miss.”

His words sounded in her ears. What had she done? If her cousin failed to escape to the nunnery, what would this man do when he learned of their deception? She had wanted to protect Olwen. Instead, she had made matters worse.

“Take your hands from me,” Catrin ordered in a soft, tight voice. “You will never force yourself upon me again.”

“What, never kiss you, my wife? Tell me, cariad , did I kiss you against your will? I think not. You responded with desire equal to my own.”

The truth stung. “I did not!”

Laughter teased his eyes. “So ’tis your game. Well met. I shall play as well, for I love a challenge.”

“I do not play,” Catrin said stiffly. “Yet I will do my duty.”

His face softened. “Duty is oft turned into something more, sometimes love. Beware, cariad , for we will have a long life together, God willing.”

“I will never grow to love you! You killed Gilbert, my bro…” She caught herself. “My cousin.”

His fingers relaxed upon her shoulders. “You do not do well to listen to court gossip.”

“I am sorry for the King Edward’s decision to ignore the rumors.”

He released his grip, and his jaw firmed. “So be it, Lady de Belleme. Believe what you must. You were bred to do your duty, and you shall do it. Of that, I am certain.”

His words nettled, but Catrin refused to be goaded further. Shaken, she stepped back, wrapping a cloak of silence around herself for protection.

“Go home and prepare for our wedding,” he ordered. “I will come for you in three days.”

Turning on his heel, the King’s Raven left her standing alone. She could do nothing but look after him, befuddled by her actions and by an aching throb deep within.